


The Scent of Home

by nondeducible



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Masturbation, Pining Sherlock, Romance, Scent Kink, sherlock sulks and john loves him anyway, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-06
Updated: 2015-11-06
Packaged: 2018-04-30 07:28:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5155382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nondeducible/pseuds/nondeducible
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John comes back to 221b and Sherlock’s world feels complete again. Even the flat smells right, both of their scents mixing together to make it home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Scent of Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AFbrat130](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AFbrat130/gifts).



> Terribly late but finally here! afbrat130 asked for romance and first kisses, so I sprinkled some light pining and scent kink on top. Hope you like it <3
> 
> As always, all my love to Ashleigh and Soli for patiently fixing my tenses and gently encouraging commas.

Sherlock had been awake for two hours by the time John made it downstairs. John entered the kitchen yawning, absentmindedly rubbing his belly with one hand. He took the fresh coffee Sherlock gently nudged towards him on the kitchen table—coffee which Sherlock had made as soon as he heard John was up—with a grateful grunt.

“Anything interesting?” John asked as he glanced through the morning papers strewn around the table. 

“Petty theft and politics,” Sherlock replied around his mug of coffee. He turned his focus back to the book on forensic entomology.

He could see John moving around the kitchen, making breakfast, in his peripheral vision. John turned his back to him, engrossed in preparing his oatmeal, and Sherlock let himself smile at the mismatched socks encasing John’s feet. His fingers itched to smooth away John’s unruly hair, and to touch the pillow creases still marring his cheeks. Sherlock wanted to feel the day old stubble beneath his fingers and his lips. He wanted to bury his nose in John’s neck and smell him, the remnants of his shower gel and shampoo, his aftershave, deodorant, sleep sweat and the very essence of John.

Sherlock gave himself a mental shake and tried to refocus on the egg laying habits of blowflies.

John sat down opposite him at the kitchen table and ate his breakfast silently, the crinkle of newspaper pages being turned and the clink of a spoon hitting a bowl the only sounds filling the room. The silence enveloping them was comfortable, borne out of years in each other’s company and the peaceful domesticity of quiet mornings such as this one.

Breakfast finished, John cleaned his bowl and mug, and allowed himself a luxurious stretch. Sherlock couldn’t help looking at John out of the corner of his eye, hungrily taking in every detail of John’s exposed abdomen and the shifting muscles beneath his skin. John’s loud yawn reminded him to stop staring, and he once again tried to concentrate on blowflies and corpses. 

“Do you want to go for a walk later?”

Sherlock looked up from his book with mild surprise.

“A walk where?”

John shrugged a little sheepishly. “Anywhere. Regent’s Park? We haven’t been in a while.”

Sherlock frowned while he considered the offer. They hadn’t been for an aimless walk for much longer than a while, since before Moriarty’s trial in fact. Since Sherlock's _return_ they mostly spent time on cases as John had his own domestic life to tend to. Sherlock hadn’t felt the need to go walking on his own, the prospect always making him irrevocably morose.

“You know what, forget I asked,” John mumbled. He wouldn’t meet Sherlock eyes, a sure sign he was embarrassed and uncomfortable.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed quickly, before John had a chance to flee the kitchen. John looked at him with a hopeful smile, and Sherlock’s chest flooded with warmth.

“I’ll grab a shower and then we can go,” John said, still smiling. Sherlock let one corner of his mouth twitch in response.

John turned on his heel and disappeared into the bathroom. Sherlock had to fight the urge to get up and go into his room to observe him through the glass bathroom door.

In the years _before_ , when they used to live together, Sherlock would often make use of the frosted glass door connecting his bedroom and the bathroom. Whenever he had heard John go in, he’d abandon whatever he had been doing and quietly slip into his room. There was a chair opposite the ensuite door, placed perfectly for surreptitious observation, where Sherlock would watch John undress. The frosted glass made everything blurry but just having the tantalising hints of John’s naked body sent Sherlock’s heart racing. He took in every detail of John’s broad shoulders and narrow hips, the thickness of his thighs, and his gaze hungrily focused on John’s groin, trying to tease out the shape of John’s cock from the blur. 

Once John was in the shower Sherlock would move to sit on his bed, as close to the door as possible. He would listen to John wash himself, sometimes catching half-hummed songs or John muttering, and if he was very lucky he would hear John masturbate. The sheer rush of hearing it—the rhythmic movements of John’s hand on his cock, the bitten off groans and moans almost, but not quite, lost in the sound of water hitting the tiles—made Sherlock hard so fast he’d feel dizzy. He’d pull his cock out, feeling guilty for what he was about to do but too turned on to stop, and stroke himself hard and fast. Still listening to John pleasuring himself in the shower, fingers of one hand shoved into his mouth to stop himself from moaning and the other hand a blur on his cock, Sherlock would come mere seconds after hearing John grunt as he reached his own climax.

Now though, _now_ things were different, more fragile. John had only just come back to live with him at Baker Street, and Sherlock reasoned it was too soon to indulge himself again, no matter how much he wanted to and how much he ached for John.

He couldn’t concentrate on the book in front of him, the study of maggots suddenly becoming unspeakably dull and meaningless. Restless, Sherlock got up to find something more interesting to do in the living room. He glanced at John’s armchair as he walked past it, and the sight of John’s cardigan thrown over the back of it made him stop. 

It was the cardigan John had worn the previous day, one which Sherlock was very familiar with as he had bought it for John himself as a birthday gift a few years prior. Sherlock reached out to touch it with his fingertips—merino wool and cashmere blend, dark blue, size medium, made in New Zealand. 

Sherlock remembered giving it to John, seeing him run his fingers over it, the genuine smile that lit up John’s face when he thanked him. Sherlock remembered John putting it on, and his own heart stopping at the sight. John looked stunning, the cardigan hugging his compact but powerful frame, the colour of it making his deep blue eyes shine. Sherlock had very nearly blurted out what he had been thinking but thankfully saved himself by managing to say, “You clean up very nicely, John” in an almost completely calm voice. John had smiled at him then, beautiful and brighter than the sun shining outside, and Sherlock had to quickly turn away to button up his jacket and fiddle with his cuffs, before announcing they were leaving for John’s birthday dinner. They had spent that night alone, just the two of them sharing food and wine in the soft glow of candlelight, something tenuous and hopeful growing slowly between them.

But that was _before_ and this was _now_. 

Sherlock stepped closer to John’s armchair, hand never leaving the cardigan. He ran his fingers across the luxurious material, entranced by its softness and deep blue colour. The fact that it belonged to John, that he had kept it for so many years and clearly took good care of it, made his heart soar. He could convince himself touching the cardigan was almost like touching John himself.

Sherlock glanced guiltily towards the bathroom door, as if John could sense what he was about to do. But no, John was still happily and obliviously showering.

Sherlock picked up the cardigan carefully, feeling the fine wool flow between his fingers, and brought it up to his face. He took a deep breath and with it he inhaled John’s scent. Intoxicating, heady, and in Sherlock’s mind, completely forbidden. 

Not satisfied with the intensity of the smell, Sherlock buried his nose in the collar of the cardigan and inhaled again. The feel of the wool against his face and John’s scent was almost overpowering, and Sherlock couldn’t stop a small whimper escaping his lips. The cardigan smelled like John’s soap and shampoo and fabric softener, his aftershave and deodorant and cologne, hints of tea and coffee and Indian food he had throughout the day; but beneath it all was the unmistakable musk of sweat and _John_. His smell belonged to 221b and, mixed with Sherlock’s own scent, made it _home_. 

Sherlock nuzzled the soft material, holding it up with both hands so that it covered the lower half of his face. He moved his nose along the collar, following the scent to where it was the strongest under the armpit.

Sherlock let out a groan. John’s smell was so clear and powerful here, the sweet musk of sweat at the forefront. The unmistakeable maleness of it was heady; the Johnness of it was addictive. Having had this, Sherlock would be unable to stop thinking about his next fix, thinking of ways to get into John’s personal space or how to steal his clothes.

Sherlock imagined smelling John himself, all those fragrances coming directly from his skin. How he longed to bury his nose in John’s neck, his hair, his armpit, and— _oh god_ —his _groin_. 

He could feel himself harden at the thought, and he wondered whether he could get away with snatching John’s cardigan for a bit, just long enough to firmly imprint the scent from it into his mind palace while he rutted against the bed with two fingers up his arse. John’s smell surrounding him, he could pretend it was John fingering him slowly to completion.

“Sherlock?”

John’s gentle fingers at his elbow started a yelp out of him. Sherlock whirled around to see John looking confused and worried. Also completely dressed. Sherlock couldn’t stop the rising panic overtaking his mind. How long had John been standing there? Had he heard him? What had he seen? Everything?

“Sherlock, you—” John stopped himself as he gave Sherlock a once over. Sherlock knew the bulge in his pyjama pants was unmistakeable and incredibly incriminating. He wished the ground would open up and swallow him whole, or for a meteor to crash into the flat, or even Mrs Hudson to suddenly appear bearing food—anything to stop this agony. As it was, he was more likely to combust from shame, if the burning in his cheeks was any indication.

Sherlock knew there was nothing he could say now to recover gracefully from the situation so he did the only thing left to him—he ran away. Without a word he pushed the cardigan into John’s hands, wrapped his dressing gown tightly around himself, and bolted from the room without looking back. He heard John call his name but he kept going until he slammed the bedroom door behind him, and threw himself on the bed. He was going to stay inside until it all went away or, what was more terrifying and more likely in this scenario, until John went away. Permanently.

\----------

Sherlock woke up some time later to find his room bathed in the late afternoon light. He didn’t remember falling asleep and hadn’t meant to, but he supposed it was better than conscious suffering. He yawned and stretched on the bed, wondering whether John was in the flat or whether he had left. His question was answered a few seconds later by John himself.

“Sherlock? Are you awake?” By the sounds of it John had been sitting in the kitchen, probably waiting for Sherlock to wake up so they could talk. Sherlock groaned and pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes until he saw stars. Anything but this.

Sherlock heard John’s soft steps getting closer to his bedroom door. He curled himself into a tight ball on the bed and wished he could simply evaporate to spare himself the embarrassment of the conversation he was about to have.

John knocked lightly on his door.

“Sherlock? Can I come in? Please?” John still sounded so hatefully careful. Sherlock said nothing and wished for his evaporation harder.

John opened the door slightly but didn’t come in. “There’s something I need to show you.”

That wasn’t what Sherlock expected John to say but he gave no indication of his surprise, and remained still. He heard John enter the room somewhat hesitantly and close the door. John walked around the bed to the side Sherlock was on, still so soft and gentle as if Sherlock was an easily spooked animal.

Sherlock refused to acknowledge John by opening his eyes, instead remained a tightly curled ball of shame and guilt. He heard John kneel by his bed.

“Sherlock, look at me,” John said pleadingly. Sherlock didn’t budge, reasoning that not doing anything had no chances of making the situation any worse. Nothing could make this situation any worse.

John’s gentle but firm hand on his forearm made him inhale sharply and open his eyes. Sherlock expected pity from John but found no traces of it, the lines on John’s face only etched with worry and kindness. Even so, the shame from earlier resurfaced and he felt his cheeks burn.

John gave him a small, reassuring smile before depositing a bundle of fabric on the bed between them. Sherlock frowned at it and then up at John, whose smile turned melancholy.

Clearly the bundle was significant and relevant to what had happened earlier. Sherlock took a closer look at it, still puzzled, and opened his mouth to ask John what he meant by this when he realised.

“Oh,” he exhaled softly as he reached out to touch it. His scarf. One of his scarves from _before_ , one he thought he had lost. Sherlock caressed the silk between his fingers, his confusion unfurling into a different direction. Had John kept it all this time? Why would he do that?

When he looked back up at John his bemusement must have shown on his face.

“After you left—” John paused and inhaled sharply. Sherlock felt a pang of sympathy and guilt, but said nothing, knowing John didn’t need to hear more of his apologies no matter how sincere they were. “After you left, I kept this. I never touched it or did anything with it while you were—while you were gone. But I kept it.” John reached out to touch the scarf gently, reverently. “Then you were back but everything was so different. I took it out a lot. Sometimes, when I—it still smelled like you. I could pretend nothing changed.”

Sherlock slowly sat up and swung his legs off the bed. John sat back on his heels and looked up at him, as if in supplication over this sentimental theft. Sherlock looked down at the scarf bundled up in his lap and tried to fight the lump in his throat.

“I missed you,” he said quietly, still looking down at his lap, hands twisted in the silky fabric. Maybe if he couldn’t see John’s pained eyes he could find the courage to say everything. “The flat was too empty. But now—now it’s home again. It’s never home when you’re not here.”

John covered the back of Sherlock’s hand with his own. Sherlock exhaled a slightly shaky breath, grateful for this silent support, and carried on.

“When you were gone everything felt wrong. Everything. Even the smells weren’t right. And now you’re back and—” Sherlock glanced up at John. “I ruined everything. Again.”

John made a broken, pained noise at the back of his throat and surged up to gather Sherlock into his arms.

“No, you haven’t,” John said as he hugged Sherlock. Sherlock froze in shock, startled by John’s affectionate outburst.

John didn’t loosen his hold on Sherlock as the seconds ticked by. Sherlock untangled his hands from the scarf in his lap, and tentatively wrapped his arms around John. He grabbed two fistfuls of John’s shirt and held on for dear life, wanting to soak up the embrace for as long as possible. They didn’t do this, they weren’t like this. Soon enough John would pull away, act a bit embarrassed at the sudden display of affection, and then go back to behaving as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

Sherlock shuffled closer to the edge of the bed to make the angle of the hug a bit less awkward, his reward being John’s contented sigh and one of his hands cupping the back of Sherlock’s head. John ran his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, petting his hair gently. Sherlock melted into John’s arms, felt the tension seep away and leave behind a pleasant fuzziness.

“I missed you too,” John murmured. “So much.”

Sherlock tucked his face into John’s neck and breathed in. He wanted to preserve this fragile moment, keep it safe in his mind palace to cherish later. John’s skin smelled fresh and clean, the scent of soap almost overpowering John’s natural one. Sherlock followed it without thinking, until he found his nose and mouth pressed to the skin behind John’s ear, where his smell was the strongest.

John started pulling away, and Sherlock knew this was it. Hugging your best friend was one thing, but smelling and kissing his neck was something else altogether. There was no coming back from this, no way to explain this but for what it was.

John’s chaste kiss on the corner of his mouth was startling. Sherlock opened his eyes—he didn’t remember closing them—to see John looking cautiously hopeful and infinitely tender.

“Alright?”

Sherlock blinked several times, trying to process what had happened. John waited patiently, caressing the back of his head and neck, his other hand rubbing soothing patterns into Sherlock’s side.

“You mean—I’m—and you—we—this?” Sherlock stumbled over his words, trying to say several things at once. He hadn’t expected this, he wasn’t prepared for this.

“Yeah.” John smiled, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. He leaned in to brush his nose along Sherlock’s. “This okay?”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed, as John closed the distance between them and kissed him.

The sensation of John’s lips on his own was not something Sherlock ever managed to imagine correctly. They were softer, still tasted faintly of mint from John’s toothpaste. They were perfect, and Sherlock never wanted to stop kissing them, stop being kissed _by_ them.

Sherlock repositioned his hands to cradle John’s head. He brushed his thumbs across John’s jawline, relishing the slight catch of stubble beneath his fingertips. Sherlock pulled away from the kiss only to pepper small, light ones all over John’s lips. John hummed and let himself be covered in Sherlock’s affection.

Sherlock’s kisses started to linger, until John caught Sherlock’s lower lip between his own and _sucked_. Sherlock moaned and opened his mouth, allowing John to push his tongue inside. They both groaned at the feeling, and that single sound turned the tender kisses into something far more passionate and urgent.

Their kissing grew more heated with each passing second, the give and take of lips and tongues becoming more frantic. Hands started roaming over chests, arms, arses, sometimes stopping to pull at hair. Whimpers, gasps, moans, heavy breathing and the slick sounds of kissing filled the room. The air felt thick and charged, the pent up passion between them spilling over and drowning them.

Sherlock pulled at John’s shirt until John got the hint and scrambled onto the bed, covering Sherlock’s body with his own. From there, short work was made of trousers, shirts and pants, leaving them both bare and craving more. 

They couldn't stop kissing, lips only moving away long enough to caress necks, returning again to swallow moans and gasps. There was no space between them, the only words spilling out were breathless invocations of deities and each other’s names. Their bodies found a rhythm almost immediately and moved as one. Hands kept wandering restlessly across body parts, sometimes pulling and pushing hard enough to leave marks.

As they got closer, as the heat in their groins coalesced and expanded, they found the words to say what they've been feeling for years. In hushed and breathless tones they confessed everything, years of longing and whole lifetimes of loss and love. Their tears were lost in sweat and damp breaths, in the words that spilled unbidden from their lips.

Much later, once their sweat cooled, they lay together, still unwilling to be parted and exchanged slow, tender kisses. In a moment of candour, Sherlock confessed he had watched John undress through the bathroom door but much preferred the less blurry and more tangible version. John laughed, not unkindly, at Sherlock’s somewhat embarrassed admission, before pulling him along to the bathroom to shower together.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr](http://nondeducible.tumblr.com/), and [fic commissions are still open!](http://nondeducible.tumblr.com/post/132164888369/ive-recently-quite-unexpectedly-lost-my-job-i)


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